


We're Bound Together (Now and Forever)

by LadyNimrodel



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff, M/M, Period-Typcial Ethnic Tensions, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Some angst, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-29 22:21:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6396196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyNimrodel/pseuds/LadyNimrodel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the age of nine, Steve and Bucky make a promise over a pair of pressed pennies they got at Coney Island that they will be friends forever. </p><p>It's a lot harder keeping that promise than they thought it would be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We're Bound Together (Now and Forever)

**Author's Note:**

> I was watching an episode of Castle, which is one of my favorite shows on TV, and the murder victim they found was a known Italian Mob Boss that went missing years ago. Their only witness was a man that used to be his best friend but he was so messed up with grief, he couldn't accept his friend's death and had some kind of dementia that made him think it was still the 70's. Anyway, when they found the body, mob boss had a pressed penny on him from Coney Island that turned out to be from his friend who was actually his lover and he was murdered because he refused to marry a woman in favor of staying with his friend. It's one of my favorite episodes, tbh.
> 
> And as I was watching it, I thought, was a great premise for a Stucky fic! So yeah, that's how this came about. Thanks for reading and I hope you all enjoy!

_.9 years old._

 

Steve gets it on a whim, really. 

He sees the machine sitting innocuously between a funnel cake stand and a game of hoops and bottles while sitting on a bench waiting for Bucky to get them both a soda pop. It’s all shiny and spanking new and he strolls over to check it out. It’s tall, taller than he is, a wooden box with glass inserts that allow him to see into the machine’s innards. Inside he can see a bunch of metal gears and slides and on the outside of the box is a red-handled crank. A sign on the front of the machine announces “Just pop in a penny, turn the crank, and claim your prize!” and next to it is picture of several different oblong shapes with images punched into their faces. Intrigued, Steve patted his pockets and finds a lint-covered penny at the bottom of his right pocket. He’d been saving it for a candy to bring home but this is intriguing enough that he doesn’t mind the loss. 

With a triumphant smile, he puts his penny in the slot at the top of the box and turns the crank. 

As he watches, the gears inside the box whirr and turn and he can see his penny sliding along, getting pulled and stretched as it goes. Fascinated, he forgets to keep cranking so he can press his nose against the glass, only the machine then stops so he vigorously swings the lever around again, breathless by the time the penny drops into the slot at the bottom of the machine. It makes a small metallic rattling noise when it lands, all stretched out now as the pictures promised. 

Delighted, Steve sweeps it out of the slot only to nearly drop it in surprise. It’s hot when it lands in his palm, making him yelp and bounce it from palm to palm. But it cools down quickly and he looks at it closely.

It has indeed been pressed into an oblong shape and into its face has been stamped a slightly crooked image of the New York skyline. 

Steve grins. It’s perfect. 

When Bucky comes trotting back a few minutes later, Steve is back on the bench, watching as he slides the pressed penny back and forth between his fingers. Bucky is wearing a huge, shit-eating grin and carrying two bottles of cola beaded with condensation. 

“Here you go, Stevie,” he says, holding out one of the bottles and cracking his open against the metal arm of the bench, “I saw the new ride next to the ferris wheel and we have to go on it!” he pauses to take a drink, blue eyes dancing then sighs when he sees Steve struggling with his own cola, “give it here.” He snatches it from Steve’s hand and pops the top just as he’d done with his own before handing it back. Steve frowns but takes a drink, sighing as it goes down cold and fizzy. He doesn’t like it that Bucky has to do things like that for him sometimes; that he’s weak and needs help to do stupid things like open a soda pop. 

“What’s that?” the question catches Steve by surprise and he glances down at his hand where Bucky is looking. 

“Oh,” Steve holds up the stretched penny with a smile of his own, “The machine over there did it!” he points to it and Bucky’s eyes light up. 

“Lemme see,” Bucky takes the penny from Steve’s skinny fingers and studies it. A little line forms between his eyebrows, the one that shows up when Bucky is concentrating. He rubs his thumb over the image of the skyline then leaps to his feet, face determined. “Show me,” he demands and snatches Steve’s hand and drags him back over to the machine.

“You put a penny in there, turn the lever until it comes out the bottom,” Steve says, clutching his own penny hard as he watches Bucky rummage about in his pockets then follows the process eagerly. Penny in, turn the lever, wait for the penny to come out the bottom. Bucky exclaims brightly when the gears behind the glass display begin to grind and Steve smiles too, caught up in his friend’s excitement. When the penny finally falls out, Bucky doesn’t even seem to mind the heat of the newly stretched metal. He just holds it up and grins. His eyes flare bright in the noon-day sun. 

“That is aces!” Bucky exclaims, proudly showing his to Steve. It’s nearly identical to the one Steve holds, only Bucky has chosen a stamp of the Statue of Liberty instead. Steve giggles when Bucky tries to make the penny stick to his sweaty forehead a moment later only to nearly drop it. 

“Careful, you don't wanna lose it,” he says because he thinks it would be sad if Bucky lost something he is so excited about. Bucky sticks his tongue out. 

“Not gonna!” Bucky says then his face lights up like he’s just had a brilliant idea. He reaches over and plucks Steve’s penny from his hand, only to replace it with his own, “Here, Stevie, you give me yours and I’ll give you mine,” and he says it like it makes perfect sense. Steve stares at the penny he was given in confusion. 

“Um, why?” he asks, expecting Bucky to give him the ever familiar ‘duh, Rogers’ look he often gets around Steve. But this time Bucky just smiles beatifically, blue eyes warm. 

“They can be like a promise,” he explains patiently, rubbing his fingers over the penny that was once Steve’s, “A promise that we’ll always be best friends forever, no matter what happens,” his blue eyes, as clear as glass, are solemn and sincere. Something backs up in Steve’s throat then, like the beginnings of an asthma attack but not. Blinking, he nods just as solemnly and closes his fingers around the penny, still warm from Bucky’s hand. 

“Promise,” he says and they grin at each other like loons. Then Bucky swings his arm around Steve’s shoulder and drags him away from the machine. 

“C’on, lets go ride that new roller coaster!” the penny is still warm when Steve slides it into his pocket and he makes sure it doesn’t fall out for the rest of the day. 

 

_.13 years old._

 

Steve is sick.

He gets sick a lot but even between bouts of delirium and chills, he can tell this time it’s bad. His body aches down to his marrow and he is so cold he thinks winter has settled itself under his skin and taken residence there. Every breath is like needles in his lungs and he can feel his heart fluttering, heaving under the strain of the fever. At one point, he thinks he dreamed that death stood over his bed. Only death told dirty jokes and wore a crown and cape of ice. It was almost nice, in a strange, feverish kind of way. But now the fever seems to have loosened its hold and Steve surfaces between one labored breath and the next. 

The ceiling above him is familiar, off-white and with a crack near the door. How many times has he stared up at this ceiling, making friends with the shadows that scuttle over its surface? He has lost count, as he’s also lost count of how many times he’s been bedridden. There are voices coming from the next room, his mother’s and another woman, the soft rise and fall of worried adults. A familiar sound in his household, he thinks with a heavy dose of guilt. He cannot hear what they are saying, the words lost behind a closed door and illness. 

There is another sound closer to hand and he turns his head with some difficulty to find Bucky perched on the narrow, rickety chair that lives beside Steve’s bed. 

Bucky’s dark head is bowed, elbows resting on his thighs and his fingers turning something over and over. When Steve blinks, he see that it is the penny, the one he traded over for Bucky’s four years ago now. His own lives folded up in a handkerchief he keeps in his pocket and his heart swells a bit to see Bucky keeps his close at hand too. As Bucky turns over the penny, his mouth moves silently, as if in prayer. Maybe he is praying, though Bucky had never been as devout as Steve is. It is even harder to muster the strength to speak but he manages to say Bucky’s name loud enough to bring the dark head up, blue eyes wide and a little shiny. 

“Steve?” he whispers, abandoning the chair so he can sit on the edge of the bed. 

“Hey,” Steve whispers because his throat hurts and talking makes it worse. Something flickers across Bucky’s face, an emotion too adult for his young features. Fear, perhaps. Or relief. 

“Fuck, Stevie, you scared me to death,” he hisses back, leaning over so Steve doesn’t have to strain to look at him. If he looks closely, he can see Bucky’s hands shaking and a redness around his eyes like he’d been crying not too long ago. A fresh wave a guilt overtakes him because he hates that he made Bucky cry. 

“ ‘m okay,” he manages and gives a weak smile. Bucky stares at him for a second, blue eyes round then his face relaxes, his shoulders slump and he slowly keels over so his forehead is pressed against Steve’s bony sternum. His breath is warm through the covers, a flare of pure life force. 

“Fuck, Stevie,” he breathes, making Steve grunt out a small laugh. 

“You kiss your mama with that mouth?” he rasps and is warmed down to his very toes when Bucky laughs a real, if somewhat tired, laugh. Bucky pulls his legs up onto the bed and wraps himself around Steve. There is a few beats of silence and the smile quickly slides off Bucky’s lips.

“You were so still. Barely breathing. I really thought…” he whispers, voice broken and, though it takes all of the strength he has, Steve untangles one hand and wraps it around Bucky’s where it is clutching his skinny shoulder. The penny is still there and he brushes his fingers over it. Bucky’s breath hitches at the touch. Then he drops his hand again because just that took a herculean effort.

“Promised. Friends forever,” he says even though he’s tired again, so tired that his eyes are closing without his permission but he hears Bucky say,

“Yeah, you did. And I’m going to hold you to it, you punk,” and Bucky’s warmth curled against him doesn’t go away until he wakes in the morning, fever gone and feeling better that he has for weeks. 

 

_.20 years old._

 

It was a bad fight. One of the worst they’ve been in. 

Italian, big, a group of four, one of which Steve knows is definitely in the mob. He knows well enough to steer clear of men like that, even when they are outside their own territory. And they are, this time, which is part of the problem. Not too many are going to make a fuss up against Tony and his boys walking through an Irish neighborhood. And if that was all they did, there presence would have gone unnoticed. But as they turned down seventh, long legs strutting over the concrete like they own it, old lady O’Hara shuffles her way out of the corner store right into their path. 

Steve, sitting next to Bucky on the front steps of their apartment with a sketchbook open on his bony knees, watches it happen as if in slow motion. 

Old lady O’Hara has a bad hip and can’t maneuver very fast. She sees the four big Italians bearing down on her and tries to get out of their way. But her feet get tangled up and she ends up tripping, spilling her groceries all over the sidewalk. Steve sucks in a breath, knowing what’s going to happen before it does. Sure enough, one of the men trips on a can and they all round on her where she cowers against the brick of the corner store. 

“What the fuck do you think you are doing?” one says, voice cracking loud enough to travel across the street, drawing the attention of a couple bystanders, “Angelo could’a broken his goddamn neck thanks to you!” Steve doesn’t know when he stood up but he’s halfway down the street before he realizes he moved. Bucky is cursing a blue streak behind him but he’s not stopping Steve. He just marches behind him, ready to go to hell for Steve because that’s what Bucky does. If Steve wasn’t so angry in that moment, he would be flooded with affection.

“I-I’m sorry,” old lady O’Hara says, her hands up and shaking in surrender. Or to ward off blows that haven’t started yet and Steve’s vision goes red. His legs move faster and his breath runs short with adrenaline.

“Yeah, well, sorry ain’t good enough, you stinking Irish—” another of the Italians is saying when Steve marches up right behind them and barks,

“Hey!” all four of the big men freeze and turn as one. Like they’ve been possessed by some telepathic entity, Steve thinks wildly, “How about you stop pushing around someone a third your size, huh, you big fucking bullies,” the words just kind of materialize on his tongue and he knows Bucky is going to kick him for it later. But now he is a silent support at Steve’s shoulder as the four Italians size them up with mean smirks curling at their lips. 

“Oh yeah?” says the one with the big hooked nose and a scar on his temple, “Well, that rules you out, doesn’t it, Potato-eater?” In a flare of rage, Steve pops him right in his humungous nose, fist darting in quick and hard. He may never have the power behind his punches that Bucky does but he’s been getting brawling lessons from Bucky since he started boxing and knows how to apply speed and the right angle to draw blood. 

And he does, cracking the asshole’s nose and making him stumble. Blood drips down into his powder blue shirt, bright and viscerally real. 

There is dead silence for a second as they stare at him before matching masks of incredulous fury close down their faces and violence explodes from their fists like a storm. 

Steve never really stood a chance. But he gives it his best go. He holds out for a few moments, blocking and swinging as best he can but a punch to the jaw sends him sprawling and then there are boots trying to kick in his ribs while insults rain down on him. He can hear Bucky shouting, voice rough with rage but he can only take one or two of the goons on at a time and can’t pull the others off Steve. Between kicks, he sees old lady O’Hara stumbling down the sidewalk, waving anxiously at someone, sees Bucky take a shot to the face that’s going to swell his eye shut for sure and then there’s a crack of his rib breaking under an uncaring boot. 

It sounds like a gunshot. 

In a haze of pain, Steve doesn’t realize at first that the kicking has stopped. His rib shoots sharp pain through him every time he breathes and he holds a trembling hand to it that throbs like it was stepped on. At least it’s not his drawing hand, he thinks. Then he realized that, no, he actually did hear a gunshot and the street has gone ominously quiet. 

With a groan, he uncurls himself a little to find the four Italians standing still, their hands raised and their faces mutinous. It looks like Bucky had damaged two of the others, giving them split lips and what might be a fractured cheek. 

“Might I ask what ya boys are doin’, brawling on our turf?” says a voice from the street and Steve feels a cold shiver down his spine. Holding himself stiffly, he painfully pushes himself into a sitting position and peers over his shoulder. Then swallows and tries to make himself look smaller. Rhys stands there, big and dark and as expressionless as the face of a blank window, flanked by at least a dozen of his boys. Steve never had occasion to bump into Rhys, who runs a bar downtown and who most definitely is in the Irish mob. Steve is pretty sure he runs the Brooklyn branch, in fact. 

He stands with his feet spread apart and a pistol held loosely at his side and Steve suddenly realizes the seriousness of the situation. 

A hand curls around his bicep and he finds Bucky hovering by his shoulder, though his blue eyes are trained on the men spread out in the the road. 

“Hey, Barns,” says one of Rhys’s men, “You okay?” Bucky’s hand is tight on Steve’s arm but his voice is easy when he answers.

“Alright, Lenny,” Steve glances at him and Bucky meets his eyes momentarily, giving a minute shake of his head. Don’t get involved any more than we already are, his expression says. For once, Steve agrees that keeping his mouth shut is probably prudent. He doesn’t move when Rhys looks them over before turning his attention back to the group of Italians who have become deathly silent. 

“See, here’s what I think,” Rhys says, walking closer and the glitter of his pale eyes is dangerous, “I think ya came into this neighborhood lookin’ for trouble, thinkin’ no one would be brave enough to stop you from pushing around old women. And then you beat a couple of our own boys, dinnit ya?” he doesn’t spare Bucky or Steve a glance but Bucky starts tugging at Steve, trying to pull him to his feet. 

“Come on, Stevie,” he whispers, “We need to go,” and Steve nods even as one of the Italian guys protests weakly. 

“We didn’t start no brawl, they did!” only to be silenced by one of his buddies with an elbow to the ribs. They are all pale and shifty eyed when Steve glances at them and then he is trying not to gasp out loud as he is unceremoniously yanked to his feet and marched away. Bucky nods grimly at Lenny as they limp by. 

“I owe you boys,” he says grimly only Lenny shakes his head. 

“Nah, this’ll be our pleasure,” and his grin is dark and feral. Rhys is calmly suggesting he walk the Italians home, his boys forming a loose circle around them and Steve knows they will be lucky to wake up in a hospital. He feels a squirm of discomfort in his stomach, as if he is watching them being marched off to their executions but when he sucks in a pained breath to say something, Bucky digs his fingers into Steve’s arm and hisses, 

“Don’t you fucking dare, Rogers,” so he doesn’t. Not this time. 

And then, just as he’s turning away, something shining on the sidewalk catches his eye. Copper and bright. His free hand flies to his pocket and he finds it empty. He’s dropped the penny that he always keeps with him. 

“Hang on for a second, Buck,” he rasps, his side one sharp, continuous ache. But he ignores Bucky’s protest and pulls himself free so he can limp back across the street. Rhys has already shuffled everyone away, down some obscure alley where no one will remark on a couple of Italian boys getting roughed up for starting shit in the wrong neighborhood. Even old lady O’Hara has slunk off and the block is eerily quiet. But he won’t leave the penny behind for someone else to pick up or to be washed into some gutter. It gleams in the sunlight, bright against the concrete and his entire body creaks as he slowly crouches to pick it up. 

It is warm in his palm and he clutches it tightly as he returns to Bucky, who waits impassively on the sidewalk. 

“What was that all about?” he asks as they gather up Steve’s dropped sketchbook and make their painful way up to their shared apartment. Steve shakes his head, wheezing and tired and unable to draw a full breath without wanting to groan. He holds his hand out to Bucky when they are safely in their apartment with the door closed and locked behind them. 

“I must’a dropped it,” he says lamely as Bucky stares at the penny in his hand. There’s an expression on his face that Steve has never seen before, huge and complicated. It scares him a little when Bucky meets his eyes. 

“What the fuck, Steve,” he breathes and then he’s crowding Steve against the wall next to the door, his mouth hot and insistent on Steve’s. The kiss burns through him like fire, stealing what little breath he has saved up in his lungs. For a moment he can do nothing but stand there and think, stupidly, that Bucky’s lips are firm and wet and wonderful. But then big hands slide carefully up around his spine and he sighs, opens his mouth to the kiss, does his best to keep up. Bucky makes a wounded sound when his tongue slides past Steve’s teeth and he tastes…Steve shakes with it. The taste is like nothing he’d ever expected. It heats him all the way to his bones. He doesn’t realize Bucky has tightened his arms until his cracked rib screams in protest. 

Steve pulls away with a bitten off cry, clutching Bucky’s jacket to keep himself upright. He's broken bones before, sure, but the pain is always surprising and more intense then he remembers after they’ve healed. 

“You’ve broken a rib, haven’t you?” Bucky asks after gentling his grip. His breath touches the wet corner of Steve’s lip and makes his heart gallop. Steve manages a shaky, sheepish smile. 

“Might’a done, yeah,” he grits out and allows Bucky to steer him to one of the hard wooden chairs in the kitchen. Every breath jars his rib but he looks up when Bucky’s hand curls around the back of his neck. His eyes are very blue and warm when Steve meets them. 

“Still don’t know how to pick your battles, do you?” Bucky says quietly, a shadow of a familiar argument, though there is no heat in his voice now. Steve still sighs like he always does and starts to protest but Bucky forestalls it by leaning down and pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of Steve’s lip. He shuts up, mouth tingling and heart beating wildly in his chest as the whole thing kind of hits him. He’s wanted to kiss Bucky for years now but he never realized Bucky wanted to kiss him back. The revelation makes him flush all over. 

“Lets clean you up, huh Steve?” Bucky says as he straightens and Steve just nods, eyes a little wide. 

All the while, the penny sits warm and safe in his palm, the physical manifestation of a promise made long ago. As he watches Bucky getting the first aid kit under the sink, he thinks yes, this is right. 

 

_.24 years old._

 

The paper weighs more than a boulder in his pocket, the 1A stamped in red ink upon its surface.

It is everything he wanted, going off to war, fighting the good fight. Even if it’s just a slight chance, hinging on a procedure he doesn’t understand, it’s still a chance. And he thinks he’s happy. The entire time Bucky has been away for training, he’s wanted nothing more than a way to join him, to fight at his side against a great evil. He’s wanted this since the US joined the Alliance against the Nazi Regime. 

So why does it feel like he’s done something he needs to hide?

The feeling stays with him as he wanders aimlessly around the World Fair for a while and then all the way back home to his dingy, empty apartment. He tells himself it is just saying goodbye to Bucky but that isn’t it. At least, there’s more to it than that. He drags his feet up the rickety steps and fumbles with the key in the door, feeling a little bit like he wants to cry. He doesn’t realize there’s a light on in the living room until he’s toed off his shoes and hung his jacket with a heavy sigh. When he turns around, he finds Bucky standing by the couch, his uniform jacket and cover discarded and his face sharp with shadow. Steve blinks at him. 

“I thought you were going dancing,” he says flatly, their earlier argument heavy in the air between them. They might have temporarily patched it because neither of them wanted Bucky to go off to war with angry words hanging over their heads but it’s still too fresh and 1A sits like a burning brand in his pocket. Bucky lifts one shoulder. An easy gesture that Steve knows is anything but nonchalant.

“I did for a little while but I wasn’t feelin’ it,” he flashes a smile only to sober quickly and for a long moment they are both quiet. Then he looks at Steve through his eyelashes and says, “I wanted to see you before I shipped out,” and that was that. Steve pitches across the apartment and throws him arms around Bucky’s shoulders, holding tight. It hits him, in that moment, face mashed against the rough material of Bucky’s uniform jacket and breathing in his scent, that this might be the last night he sees Bucky. He doesn’t want to think it, does his very best not to succumb to the despair, but death is not discriminatory in war. Bucky’s arms are warm and strong around his crooked back and he tries to commit the feeling to memory.

“Buck, I don’t—” he breaks off because his voice stops working. 

“Shh, Stevie, it’s gonna be fine. I’ll come back,” Bucky whispers into Steve’s hair and Steve makes a noise that he can’t stop. It is jagged and small and desperate.

“You gotta, Bucky,” he gasps into Bucky’s collar, “You gotta,” and he knows it’s not fair of him. He’s got his own orders to report in the morning. What if he dies and Bucky comes home to an empty apartment and a telegram with an empty attempt at condolence? Bucky hugs him tight then loosens his grip, pulling back so he can look down into Steve’s face. His eyes are nearly black. 

“We did promise forever, right?” Bucky asks softly, reaching into his jacket uniform and pulling out his dog tags. They clink softly as he holds them out, gleaming in the dim light. Then Steve realizes there’s another object swinging from the chain and Steve frees one hand from Bucky’s neck to touch the penny. A hole has been punched at one end so it can sit behind the two tags, hidden and pressed against Bucky’s chest. 

Steve’s own chest suddenly feels dangerously tight. 

“We were so fucking stupid when we made that promise, weren’t we,” he says, voice shaky and sees the way Bucky’s lips quirk a little. Like they always do when Steve curses, even though he curses a lot. Bucky touches his cheek, achingly gentle then leans in to press an equally gentle kiss to Steve’s lips. 

It tastes unbearably sweet. 

“Maybe a little,” Bucky whispers, breath hot against Steve’s mouth, “but you ain’t getting rid of me that easily, punk,” and Steve laughs helplessly even as his heart breaks. He nods, fingers rubbing the penny for a moment before he leans in and presses a kiss to it. The tang of metal lingers on his lips when he pulls away. 

“Better not,” he says and sighs into their next, lingering kiss. He files away how Bucky had put the penny on the chain around his neck so that he can do the same when he gets his own tags. 

They go to bed after, clinging like they can’t bear the separation and Steve drifts off to sleep with Bucky’s arms around his waist and their breath mingling in the short space between their lips. 

It feels like a goodbye, even though they don’t say it aloud. 

*

As soon as Steve gets his own set of dog tags, he uses an acquired (stolen) screwdriver and a hammer to put a hole at the end of his penny that lives in his pocket, and slides it onto the chain with the tags. 

The metal is warm against the skin over his heart.

 

 _.25 years old._

 

Bucky can’t stop staring at him. 

At first Steve doesn’t really notice, trying to get an entire platoon of escaped prisoners through the woods as quickly and as silently as possible. It’s a strange thing, people listening to him like what he has to say suddenly has weight and meaning. He’s always had something to say, sure, but before the serum, no one ever listened. In fact, even after, during the SSR tour, he was mostly brushed off. Like an animated doll that had no use other than selling bonds. But now. 

None of these men knew he used to be a skinny twerp that ran on nothing but determination and spite. They saw his height and the breadth of his shoulders and heard the command in his voice that Steve didn’t even know was there and they nodded. They listened. 

All but Bucky. 

“What the hell happened to you, Stevie?” Bucky asks after they make it back safely, after he and everyone else was checked by the medics and the bustle of excitement settled a little. He sits on the cot in Steve’s tent, hands clasped in front of him and looking truly awful. Shadows cling to the edges of his eyes and he looks almost as thin has he had the winter of ’39 when they couldn’t scrounge up enough food because Steve’s medicine used up almost all of their money every week. Fear beat hard against the inside of Steve’s ribs. 

“I thought…” he pauses in the open flap before stepping in and pulling it closed behind him. He wants to ask Bucky how he feels but the hard expression on Bucky’s face is forbidding. Instead he says softly, “I thought we already went over this.” Bucky glared at him. 

“A few sentences exchanged while fleeing an exploding factory does not a conversation make,” he snapped, teeth flashing like he’s biting the words and chewing them. He gets to his feet, a graceful movement that startles Steve, “I go away and you’re this skinny little shit and then you show up here, after I told you not to do anything fucking stupid, as big as a fucking house and giving everyone orders,” he throws his hands out to the side, “what the fuck, Steve!” Just like that, Steve feels like he’s back home, arguing again why he deserved a chance to enlist and lay down his life like everyone else. 

“I had to try, Buck! I had to…I couldn’t just stay home and twiddle my thumbs while you and these man died on the front lines and,” he stops, knows his eyes are wide and pleading, needing Bucky to understand, “Dr. Erskine gave me a chance and I had to take it. And it worked!” he holds his own hands out, letting Bucky really see him, “I’m strong, Bucky. I can run faster than anyone else, I can lift a car like it’s…it’s nothing! And I don’t…I’m not sick anymore. I can breathe and I can see clearly and I can hear fine outta both ears,” he shrugs, deflating a little as Bucky just continues to stare at him, face blank, “Hear better than fine, actually.” There is dead silence in the tent and Steve feels himself go inexplicably hot as Bucky’s pale eyes travel over him a couple times. 

Takes in the width of his shoulders, the length of his legs and the strength hidden in them, takes in the hard shape of Steve’s jaw and the way he is the taller one now. 

“No more asthma?” Bucky finally asks, voice low. 

“Nope,” says Steve, relief washing over him. He’d hoped that Bucky would go easy on him if he knew that the serum had fixed his chronic ailments. 

“No phenomena or fevers or anemia?” he takes a step closer as he asks and his dog tags clink softly with the movement. Steve shakes his head and smiles a little. 

“Nah, Bucky. Even my back isn’t crooked anymore,” Bucky stares at him for another minute before hauling back and punching him square on the jaw. Steve doesn’t see it coming and pain flares behind his eyes as his head snaps back. A punch like that, no holds barred, would have knocked him out cold before but now he barely stumbles. Even so, Bucky put his entire body into it and Steve press a hand to his throbbing jaw. His eyes are wide as he stares wildly at his friend. 

“Ow, what the fuck?” he gasps then nearly stumbles again as Bucky gets in his face. He’s furious, Steve realizes. He can’t remember the last time he saw Bucky this mad.

“It could’a killed you, Steve. It could’a turned you into that red faced monster we saw. It…” he stops, takes a breath and lets it out in a slow exhale. Steve bites his lip and refuses to apologize. Finally Bucky closes what little distance is left between them and pressed one palm to the curve of his chest, “At least your size almost matches the amount of fight in you now,” and it sounds like acceptance. He leans down, which is strange, and rests his forehead to Bucky’s. 

“If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have come here and found you. I would have gotten one of those telegrams like Mrs. Harris and that would have killed me,” he says as he slides his hands around Bucky’s narrow waist. Warm breath washes over his chin and he meets Bucky’s eyes, the color of a winter sky. 

“I know, Stevie,” he sighs, “I know,” he presses a kiss to Steve’s cheek and another to the corner of his mouth. Then he lifts Steve’ tags from his chest and flips them over revealing the penny tucked behind them on the chain. The kiss he presses to the warm copper is forgiveness and the metallic tang on his lips when Steve captures them with his own a moment later sends shivers down his spine. 

Later, as they lay curled up on the too-small cot, Bucky’s head pillowed on Steve’s chest, he starts laughing quietly in the darkness. Outside the tent is the occasional shuffle of a sleeping camp and inside it is only their breath and the feel of skin against skin. 

“What?” Steve whispers as he runs his hands through Bucky’s soft, dark hair. His chin presses hard into Steve’s shoulder for a moment. 

“You’re built like a fucking brick shit house, Steve!” he exclaims finally, leaning up so he can lift Steve’s arm and demonstrate how his hands don’t fit all the way around Steve’s bicep. Steve laughs helplessly because he gets it. He still does a double take every time he catches his reflection in a mirror. 

“I know. It’s…taken some getting used to,” Bucky snorts and drops his hand, curling back up against Steve’s side. 

“I bet,” he grumbles, even though his hand wanders over the flat ridge of Steve’s belly and hips. The touch is innocent; they can’t afford to get caught, after all. But it still ignites something in Steve he’d been terrified he’d lost for good. Bucky is quiet, tracing the valley between Steve’s abs before he whispers, “I liked your crooked back and your skinny arms,” he doesn’t sound sad, though, just thoughtful. Steve swallows but before he can say anything Bucky hums thoughtfully and adds, “But I think I like this new you just as much.”

Steve laughs when Bucky looks at him and wags his eyebrows. 

He thinks, for the first time since Bucky shipped out, that they might be okay after all. 

 

_.26 years old._

Steve does not scream when Bucky falls. 

He thought he would. He always thought, in the dark corners at the back of his mind, that if he was to loose Bucky, he would scream and wail because the grief would be unbearable. 

It is unbearable but he cannot even make a sound. 

The side of the train gapes open, ragged and ugly and the snowy ravine becomes narrow peaks again and Steve cannot pick himself off the floor, cannot stop staring at the place he last saw Bucky. And the only thing he knows is the biting cold and the howling wind and Bucky’s final scream that still echoes in his head. He sits and stares and his heart turns as cold as the mountains that fly past. 

All the while, he holds the penny in his hand where it hangs against his chest and he does not feel the bite of its edge nor the spill of his blood.

He only feels the ever widening distance between him and Bucky’s broken body on the ravine floor.

 

_.47 hours later._

 

It seems fitting, then, that he would drive the plane into the ice. At least now he would have the same cold grave as Bucky. He thought maybe he would be afraid to die, or maybe regret to leave so much undone. 

But Steve just feels relieved.

As the plane angles down and the water and ice rush up to meet it, Steve pulls the penny off its chain and holds it tight. They made a promise after all. If he could not fulfill it in this life, then perhaps they would be given another chance in the next. 

 

 

 

_.28 (93) years old._

 

The warm summer night is quiet, now that most of the fireworks shows have ended and most people have gone home from their respective parties. The scent of smoke hangs heavy in the air and lights twinkle in trees and along the tops of fences. It’s beautiful and nothing at all like how he remembers celebrating the fourth of July when he was young. 

“We gotta do something, man. You can’t not celebrate your birthday,” Sam had explained yesterday when he came home with bags full of food and decorations, “Also, Captain America not celebrating America’s birthday? Crying shame,” which made Steve laugh, as Sam had clearly been aiming for. Of course he agreed, though he’s pretty sure Sam’s enthusiasm was mostly prompted by Steve’s description of what he’d do to celebrate growing up. When his mother was still alive, she would bring him home a small cake if she could and would sing happy birthday. Then Bucky would race over and they would spend the evening on the roof, watching the fireworks flare to life over the rooftops. After his mother died, neither he nor Bucky had leftover money for gifts but they would always spend the day together and end it on a rooftop, watching the fireworks. 

Of course, birthdays meant nothing while fighting a war and after he’d woken from the ice, he’d had no reason to celebrate it. He didn’t think it was so bad but he could tell Sam felt bad. So he’d gone out of his way to make sure Steve had at least some kind of party. 

Steve doesn’t know what he did to deserve Sam as a friend. 

It was a good party too, if it could be called that. It was only Sam, Natasha, Clint, and Steve himself but it was better for that. It was the first time he felt like he was in the presence of real friends again. They gave him something else to think about, other than months of fruitless searching and a growing hole in his soul. And Steve loves them, he does. Steadfast and loyal Sam, fierce and intelligent Natasha, goofy and kind Clint. They may not be the Howling Commandos but they are just as good in their own way. True friends in a world that he thought, for the longest time, he was entirely isolated in. 

Chest full and warm, he glances through the sliding screen door to where they are sprawled over the living room furniture, Sam in his favorite chair and Natasha with her head on Clint’s lap on the couch. Clint is dozing, head titled to the side at an angle he’s going to regret later, while Sam and Natasha discuss something in low voices. The tv flickers in the background, unwatched and muted. 

Steve smiles and makes to join them, when a silver flash of light catches his eye. 

Startled, Steve swings around and just catches a dark shadow on a roof across the street with a bright metal arm attached before it scuttles out of sight. 

Heart suddenly in his throat, Steve is up and out of Sam’s back yard before he can even think properly, chasing the shadow as it dashes across the rooftops from the pavement below. Every once and a while, the arm gleams, like a beacon. Like it’s beckoning him along. 

He runs for several blocks, just keeping the shadow in sight, hanging a left and then a right and then a left again. It isn’t until a park looms ahead of him, trees massive dark shapes in the night, that he realizes he wasn’t chasing anything but was led here on purpose. The thought makes him slow to a cautious pace, even as his pulse ratchets up in hope and excitement. Months of following leads that end nowhere have been taxing. A few times they took him to Hydra bases that he and his team razed to the ground but there was never any glimpse of who he came for. 

Yet there he is, standing next to a bench with his hands in his pockets and his head bowed so his shaggy hair hides his face. 

“Bucky,” Steve breathes, feeling like he’s going to fly to pieces just standing this close. He thinks maybe he should be cautious, since the last time he was this close to Bucky, he was trying to best to kill Steve. But Bucky’s shoulder’s aren’t tense and he stays still as Steve approaches. Steve stops at the other side of the bench and stares hungrily, taking Bucky in. 

His hair is still long and in need of a wash but he’s not thin and his strange metal arm gleams from under the sleeve of his t-shirt. When he finally looks up at Steve, his face is shadowed but not haunted. Maybe just a little tired. 

“Have a nice birthday, Steve?” he asks, voice rough but warm and Steve makes a low noise in the back of his throat. 

“Y-yeah,” he manages, licking his lips before asking, “You remember that it’s my birthday?” he’s trembling, he thinks, but he doesn’t know why. The corner of Bucky’s lips quirk up. His smile is different. Stilted and flat but it’s still a smile. 

“Every fourth of July we would sit on the roof and watch the fireworks, and you would always say it was the best birthday ever. Even if that was the only thing we did,” Steve bows his head, breath caught in his lungs and he has to swallow a few times before he could trust his voice again. 

“Because it always was the best, as long as you were there,” he responds, then laughs a little, embarrassed. He wants to cry, though. He can feel it, clenching in the back of his throat, the tremble of his lips, and the burn behind his eyes. 

“Always did say the nicest things,” Bucky murmurs, fond and Steve chokes. Holds onto the back of the bench with both hands until the wood cracks under his grip. There’s footsteps on the gravel and then Bucky is next to him, metal hand gentle on his arm, “I’m sorry it took so long, Stevie. I needed to be sure I wasn’t going to hurt you again before I let myself come home,” Steve bites his lip and blinks desperately to keep the tears back. 

“You’re coming home?” he asks and his voice doesn’t break. Gently, so gently, he’s turned so he’s facing Bucky and his blue eyes look black in the dim light of the distant street lamps. They are no longer cold and lifeless and they meet Steve’s with a warmth he’d been terrified had been frozen out of Bucky for good. With his right hand, Bucky digs in the pocket of his jeans and pulls out something small that he rubs his thumb over before uncurling his fingers to show to Steve. 

It’s the penny, the one Bucky traded him all those years ago, that he’d worn around his neck until a few months ago. When he’d slipped the penny into Bucky’s pocket in the last few moments before he plunged into the Potomac. 

“I found this in my pocket after I pulled you out of that river and every time I looked at it, I saw your face,” Bucky explains softly, metal hand still curled around Steve’s arm like it belongs there, “There was nothing but what you said to me on the helicarrier until I found that in my pocket. And then…there you were,” he searches Steve’s face, expression intense, like he is trying to place Steve’s face with the one in his memories. Then he gives a small tug on Steve’s arm and they sort of just fall together, forehead to knee, pressed close.

He smells the same yet different and his grip on Steve’s hips is stronger. But it’s him. 

Steve thinks he might fly apart. 

“Lost the other penny, pal,” Bucky says, breath washing over Steve’s chin and Steve gives a small, strangled laugh that sounds more like a sob. Arms wrapped around Bucky’s shoulders, he breathes him in and answers, 

“That’s okay, we can go get another one if you want,” even though they both know it was never about the pennies. It was about a promise that not even death could break. They stand in the middle of the dark, empty park for a long time, pressed together like the only way they can breathe is if their lungs breathe as one being. It’s a while before Bucky whispers, 

“It’s still a mess in here, Stevie. There’s so much empty space and so much blood,” his voice is harsh and pained and Steve just holds him tighter. 

“We’ll be alright, Buck, okay?” he whispers back, “No matter what happens, we’ll figure it out,” because Steve swears he will turn himself inside out before he lets Bucky go again. He wants to stand there forever, with Bucky’s arms curled around his waist and their foreheads pressed together like they could melt into one another if they are just close enough. But a rouge firework goes off a few streets away, making them both tense. But Steve doesn’t let go completely when he steps back, fingers touching Bucky’s shoulders and neck and chest.

“We should go home, the others will have noticed I’m gone by now,” Steve says even as he regrets giving up this peace. Bucky nods but reels Steve back in, a curl of a smile on his lips again. 

“One more thing,” he says then kisses Steve, lips warm and dry and perfect. Steve knows he’s grinning stupidly when he pulls away but he doesn’t care when Bucky lifts an eyebrow and tilts his head. Giddy with joy, he fits his fingers between Bucky’s metal ones and pulls him along as he starts walking. 

“What’s so funny?” he asks and Steve shakes his head with a chuckle. 

“Always were a sap, weren’t you?” he says and thinks he might strain something his smile is so big. Bucky snorts. 

“I may have a lot of holes between my ears at the moment, but I am one hundred percent positive you were the sap,” he sounds almost offended and Steve bites back another laugh, lifting both eyebrows when he glances over. 

“That’s a big percentage there, buddy. I mean, math never was your strong point,” he teases, which is a dead lie because Bucky was always brilliant in math. It earns him a sharp metal elbow in his ribs and a dirty look. It’s so familiar it almost gives him vertigo. He’s never seen anything so beautiful in his entire life than the look of affection hiding behind Bucky’s feigned glare. 

“You’re a goddamn punk,” Bucky says and Steve barks a laugh. It echoes down the deserted sidewalk but he doesn’t care. Things won’t be the same. Too much has happened and the world is very different. There will be more hardships, and more heartache. 

But, as long as Steve has Bucky at his side, they can weather anything. 

After all, they made a promise. 

 

/end

**Author's Note:**

> please come flail with me on tumblr at lament-for-nimrodel!


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